


All Fall Down

by gabsrambles



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Eventual Happy Ending, F/F, Rewrite
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6180163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gabsrambles/pseuds/gabsrambles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fall of the Commander, the rise of Lexa, the grief of Clarke and piecing all your pieces back together...</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Fall Down

**Author's Note:**

> This picks up from 3.07 after Clarke and Lexa fall into bed. This is me attempting to prove that the twist of the AI in the reincarnation could be revealed, the Commander could be off screen and the way of the Conclave could be shown. It is not a perfect theory, but I am going to try to tie it in with each new episode so it converges with the show. Please note the ´try´, as it depends where the show goes and if I can link it with where I´ve taken this. 
> 
> *This is Clarke/Lexa end game, though will probably take some time.*
> 
> I´m still figuring out if I´ll rewrite each episode (that´s a lot of work) or do one shots based around it. Maybe both. But whatever I do, I had to get this idea down. I hope you enjoy. Feedback is loved, constructive or otherwise.

Clarke has fallen from the sky, an explosion of star dust trailing behind her and smoke blooming in her wake. Children have followed her when she had no idea where she was going. Mountains have fallen at her feet. Her hands have sluiced across blood, have felt pulses stop beneath them, have felt light leave a body. She has spoken a tongue just months before foreign to her, has stood before people who stared back, trust in their eyes and fear bubbling behind it. She has followed and led and walked alone. She´s known love. Poisonous love, safe love, destructive love, one that felt like it would consume her; one she sunk a blade into, a boy´s name trembling from her lips.

But she doesn´t think she has ever known a peace like this.

When Clarke wakes, the sun is warm on her skin. Motes dance in the light that´s caressing Lexa´s shoulder. Even at the thought that she shouldn´t have let herself fall asleep, even if just for a few minutes, that she needs to get to Arkadia by daybreak, a smile tugs at Clarke´s lips.

Everything is light, giddy.

She _feels_ seventeen. Or is she eighteen now? She isn´t even really sure. Right now, she doesn´t care. She feels like things she read in books, dizzy with an emotion she can´t put words to.

She´s happy. Content. And the feelings washing over her are so foreign that she realises she´d forgotten how they worked. That there were moments you could take a break and breathe, let yourself be in a moment, instead of thinking, scheming, ten steps ahead. Twenty steps, a thousand more as you plot every fork in every step.

But there is something else, something heavy, solid, that sits in her chest, ballooning with each breath Lexa takes. Clarke´s arm is thrown over her stomach, toned and smooth and soft, and it rises with Lexa´s breathing, inflating this feeling in Clarke´s chest.

She can´t place what it is.

Light spills over the pillow, lighting up Lexa´s face as she sleeps. Her mouth is slightly slack, her face smooth and her lips swollen from the last hour. Nothing, ever before, has been like that past hour. Really, Clarke´s left this as long as she could. She needs to go. To get up, to slip out of the warm bed and leave Lexa behind. To cross the line to face her people that she no longer really feels are hers, yet can´t let go of completely. Parts of her reach for them, the people she did unthinkable things for. If she gives them up for lost, accepts they are murderers, killers, plotters, then what she did to save them holds no justification to soothe the moments the horror at her actions crawl up her spine to nestle in her mind and spread blisters and asphyxiation.

They voted for that man. Even if some didn´t, she had no idea who they were. The thought that it could have been some of her forty-seven would make her feel nauseous if it wasn´t for that weight in her chest, heavier than anything else, stopping that feeling.

It´s easy to slip her hand off of Lexa, who barely stirs. Clarke can´t bring herself to wake her up. They don´t need to say good bye, not now, they´ve done that. And Lexa looks so…relaxed. A word Clarke would never have used for her before.

But she does.

The entire time she´s dressing, aware that Lexa is stirring but apparently resisting opening her eyes, that feeling niggles in her chest. It crawls upwards, blooms, and still she can´t place it.

As she turns to go, Lexa´s eyes finally open. Blinking sleepily, a smile, the one Clarke still isn´t accustomed to but takes her breath away, creeps over Lexa´s lips. With a smile back, a nod passes between them and Clarke walks for the door. Something makes her pause, her lips parting and hand hovering on the handle.

That feeling crashes over her, the word making her lips ´oh´ as she realises what it is.

That feeling is hope.

 

* * *

 

¨Clarke kom skaikru!¨ The voice calls from the throne room, echoing out into the corridor where Clarke pauses, and considers ignoring it. She needs to leave. Starting the steps to take her out, away from Lexa, from Polis, a haven built in hell, isn´t easy.

But that voice is not one she easily ignores, even if the level, the tone, is so different from what she heard not even twenty minutes ago.

Clarke carries nothing with her. She arrived with nothing, and leaves with the same. There are clothes she has been wearing and while she loves them, they belong here. They smell of the wax that melts from the candles, of the tower, of hard stone and soft soap, of something that will forever be Lexa. Clarke dressed herself in some of those items, and left the rest tucked in drawers, ready to claim back later.

Maybe.

Someday.

The clothes are heavy with the smell of Lexa, and Clarke can still smell her on her skin. It wraps around her like furs in winter, like warmth and comfort and safety. It´s like Lexa´s fingertips, ghosting over her skin, coaxing moans from her mouth.

There´s a smile tugging at her lips and it feels foreign, so she tucks it away to bring out later and roll over her memory, like a worry stone in her fingers.

Taking a deep breath, Clarke turns and walks into the throne room. It´s full, as it often is. Representatives of the twelve clans watch her with weary eyes, sparks of anger flicking in some. It´s not an unfamiliar atmosphere, and Clarke´s chin juts out, just slightly. Her jaw clenches, teethe almost grinding together. People she has seen in there before, and people she hasn´t, crowd the room. Lexa is on her throne, seated, relaxed in the place she knows she belongs.

Parts of Clarke want to walk straight to her, to lean down and kiss her, run her hands through the hastily done braids. It took her no time to become Heda, no longer the girl sprawled in the bed, Clarkes name clicking from her mouth in a gasp.

¨You called me, Commander?¨

¨Titus has insisted on a drink, a toast of sort, before you leave.¨ Lexa stares down at her, her eyes wrapped in war paint, kohl dark around her eyes. She is not often like this in Polis, and Clarke wants to ask her why. But no one questions Heda. ¨Will Wanheda honour this request?¨

Clarke wants to smile at her, to husk a laugh and watch Lexa´s face respond. She wants to be back in that room, in their bubble of sun and touches that started soft the first time, and ended desperate the third. Instead she looks to Titus, his hands folded in front of him and his back straight. He simply nods at her, his expression unchanged.

He is impossible to figure out, to know. They dance around each other, agreeing with each other´s decisions then picking apart the next to point at all the flaws. Lexa is the sun in their solar system, and they rotate around her, her gravitational pull different for them both as they wait to collide, even as both seem to only think of her safety.

Hands behind her back, Clarke nods. ¨I´ll be honoured to. But then I have to leave, my people need me.¨

If Clarke didn´t know better, she could swear she saw the start of mirth in Lexa´s eye, but when she looks again, her expression is stone.

Servers pass between them all, filling glasses and mugs.

Their eyes never leave each other, and Clarke wants to go back, to disappear back in their room where they are learning to map each other´s bodies, two girls and their first time together, whispering words and grasping at each other´s flesh. But, rather than that, they stand, Heda and Wanheda, to stare at each other separated by more than just three meters of space.

Titus hands a cup to Lexa, the goblet ornate, scarred and beautiful and Clarke can´t help but think it fits her, on her throne of metal surrounded by people who mutter mutiny yet still bow at her feet.

There´s a lump in Clark´s throat and she wants to swallow it down, beat it down, ignore its existence altogether but instead it just grows, defies her, prickles at her insides.

Titus´ attempt to create peace with Wanheda has made Clarke tired, exhausted. But nothing more than sad. Lexa is further away from her than she has ever been, and it isn´t the memory Clarke wanted to leave with. She wants to leave with the taste of her mouth, the memory of nails on her skin and a desperate voice in her ear. Of rays from a window and an easy smile that in this room , with these people, will never be given.

Clarke has to walk away and ride to her people and weariness is fast settling over her skin.

The wine in her hand is a deep red, almost plum coloured, and Clarke wants to take steps backwards until her back hits the wall. To sit unnoticed in a corner and paint out the scene, Heda surrounded by her people she´s desperately trying to gather close and press into a shape that resembles peace. To colour in the man always at her side, brow pressed together in dissent, concern, disagreement, worry. Charcoal could shade in the shadow that has moved across his eyes as he follows his Heda in raising his cup, the others in the room murmuring, muttering, as one by one they raise a reluctant cup in answer.

Clarke holds Lexa´s eye as she takes a sip, their gaze locked and unwavering.

And there, the light behind her, Lexa is stunning, is strong, is a warrior, a leader. Like that, Clarke can actually see everything she could do. Can see her legacy, her peace she will bring her people to. And amongst it, she can herself beside her. She´s everything, and Clarke can´t look away.

It´s because of that she sees the exact moment.

It happens so fast, so quickly, that hours later Clarke can´t stop playing it over in her mind, wondering what she could have done.

First, the goblet in Lexa´s hand shakes. Her eyes widen, then. The white is visible around the green, the black kohl making them stand out and Clarke realises Lexa is surprised.

There is a flash of fear that is buried quickly as Lexa coughs and the room stops moving, stills completely, as people drift, unsure. She coughs again and the goblet falls to the ground, a clanging sound reverberating despite the cluster of people that fills the room. There´s a second in which the bottom falls out from Clarke´s world before it slams back in and nearly knocks her feet from under her. Lexa´s hands are at her throat and Clarke´s storming towards her as she falls forward, somehow beating Titus to catch her, to clutch her tightly. She´s light, yet not, her body cloaked and Clarke doesn´t understand what´s happening. Lexa´s face is red, her breathing gasping, wheezing. It only takes a second, but probably one too long, for Clarke to realise, her eyes tearing from Lexa´s desperate own as she stumbles back and her legs give way, falling to the floor with the Commander of Thirteen Clans gathered in her arms.

¨She´s been poisoned.¨

There´s no noise in the room except the desperation for breath and Lexa´s hand falls from where it was clutching Clarke´s shirt, her eye staring at the ceiling and Clarke knows it´s too late, knows she can´t bring her back by compressing her chest with whatever poison is in her system and she can´t think, she can´t breathe, she can´t understand.

Everything feels cold.

¨Don´t you have an antidote?¨

She doesn´t know her own voice, but it must be her, because the words burn her throat as she screams them at Titus, who at some point has fallen to his knees beside her, his face pale and eyes wide.

¨We have no poisons that do this.¨

Titus is crying, and he can´t be crying, he doesn´t have emotion beyond blood must have blood, but he is. His eyes are red and he´s staring down at Lexa and Clarke can´t follow his line of sight, can´t confirm with her eyes what the unmoving weight in her arms has confirmed.

¨Restrain her.¨ He says.

Clarke doesn´t know what he means.

But she´s being pulled backwards, held as she rasps for them to stop touching her before whoever has her jabs her ribs, taking her breath so all Clarke can do is watch as Titus speaks, words Clarke can´t concentrate on with the sick feeling spreading through her stomach. He pulls something from his pockets, rolled leather. He unwraps it, rolls Lexa onto het stomach and Clarke is only being supported by whoever holds her as she watches him cut at Lexa´s neck. Blood wells, thick and wet and gleaming and with a sob, Clarke can feel how that skin felt beneath her lips, the goose bumps left by her tongue and a soft breath.

Easily, as if he has done it before, Titus pulls something out. Something…something technological. Something she can only say is AI.

She must have said it a loud, though she doesn´t know how to speak, because the gruff voice in her ear answers, ¨No. It is the spirit of the Commander.¨

Everyone in the room falls to their knees, and Clarke doesn´t believe it, doesn´t get it. She can´t. No one is holding her now, and she´s left standing, looking at a sea of bowed heads and the body of what once was Lexa.

¨Yu gonlpei ste oden.¨

Titus´ voice is reverent, deep, like gravel. He picks Lexa up of the ground, and the room reverberates with the answering murmur from every person in the room but Clarke.

¨Yu gonplei ste oden.¨

Titus pauses next to Clarke, eyes fixed on the door.

¨Search everyone in this room, find who assassinated our Commander. Lock Wanheda in her room.¨

And, again, Clarke is dragged screaming from that room.

 

* * *

 

Commanders have always died. It´s almost as if it´s what they are created to do. They are born, black blood pumping through their veins, marking them for a sacred duty that Titus is bound to secure, to guide, to aid.

Each death has been a stab in his stomach, something that has taken more from him each time.

But no one can deny that with Lexa´s death will come progression, will come the next Commander who can carry on blood must have blood with strength, with the ruthlessness he had thought Lexa possesses.

Possessed.

Lexa who, unlike other nightbloods, came as a babe. As a squalling, wise-eyed babe with no one. And Titus, with an experienced Commander on the throne already, was handed her. No parents, killed in a massacre and found strapped to her father´s chest, bleeding black from a superficial wound.

He watched her grow, he held her hands as she took steps across the stoned floor of her room, her look serious and determined. He struggled to find enough books for her to devour, not content to listen to him read ones she had heard before. She craved the new, the unheard, the revolutionary. He found Gustus, who never left her side, his hand on the hilt of his sword when it wasn´t gripped by hers as she tugged him to look at something fresh, something gleaming. The bear of a man would break into a grin whenever she handed him something precious she had found in the forest, fingers nimble. She had an obsession with smooth, circular stones. Titus would find them in his pockets, Anya once grumbling that her boots were full of them, the affection in her voice layered and deep. But Gustus had kept them all, lain them all out on the sill in his quarters.

Lexa had been different, to Titus. Yet she had also been different, as Commander, to do what none before had managed. The twelve clans united, with ruthlessness, yes, but also with intelligence, with thoughtfulness and with restraint.

Even after Costia.

But now she is leading them to folly.

Her body is heavy in his hands and he marches down cold corridors, slipping down a staircase no one knows of but him. It will lead him down to his chamber, now empty of the skaikru filth, left somewhere to serve a purpose soon.

At first, the plan to take him to Clarke´s room and dispose of her had taken root. But he´d shaken it. If losing Costia had not pushed Lexa to war but to a stronger alliance, then even the death of Wanheda, with a hold on Lexa he has never witnessed before, wouldn´t lead to the war he needed.

A new commander.

That was what they needed.

Vision and understanding of blood must have blood. It is their way, it has always been their way.

The thought had left him hollow, left him lost. Left him aching against what was his responsibility, and his alone, the weakness he long since warned Lexa of deeply vined around his heart.

Lexa is not just a Commander.

She is Lexa.

The girl with a heart softer than even she herself had known.

He places her as gently as he can on a table in the room, sure that the poison he´d slipped into her drink would keep her out for hours. The plant is a difficult one to find, and more difficult to harness. It leaves the victim as still as death, heart rate faint and sluggish, almost undetectable.

Death Rose.

Aptly named and aptly applied.

They would have a new Commander. A new reign.

But Lexa would also have life.

Though Titus isn´t sure it would be a life she would want, one without her people. Her duty. Her calling.

¨Forgive me.¨

The door closes with the click of the lock, as he makes his way back to begin the Conclave and bury the things he has done, to scheme this plot further into being.

The people want this, they will not dig too deeply.

**Author's Note:**

> _I tumble[here](http://gabs-88.tumblr.com/), feel free to stop by and ramble at me, ask questions, say hi or whatever._


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